


The Imperative Voice

by Skud



Series: Hypothesis [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Asexual Character, Community: kink_bingo, D/s, Humiliation, In Public, Kink, M/M, train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-09
Updated: 2010-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:33:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skud/pseuds/Skud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation in a private train compartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Imperative Voice

**Author's Note:**

> For the Kink Bingo "humiliation (verbal)" square (with bonus "vehicular" and "in public", neither of which are on my card). Originally posted [on Dreamwidth](http://damned-colonial.dreamwidth.org/486732.html).

Watson adjusted his tie, squared his shoulders, and opened his bedroom door. Much as he wished he could hide there indefinitely, he would have to go downstairs sooner or later. Holmes was sitting at the table, behind a copy of the Telegraph. He lowered it and said, "Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," said Watson, taking a seat and reaching for the coffee-pot and a slice of toast. His stomach felt like it was full of acid, but he was resolved to act normally no matter the cost. He poured the coffee, buttered the toast, took a bite and swallowed before asking, "Anything in the paper?"

"One item of potential interest," replied Holmes. "I think we may have to pay a visit to Gravesend. You will accompany me, of course?"

It was a question and a command -- so ordinary and yet so suddenly strange. Watson realised his hand was shaking and put the toast down on his plate. "Of course," he replied. "Holmes --" he said, but there was a knock at the door, a telegram summoning Holmes, as expected, to Gravesend, and the moment had passed. He was, if anything, relieved; he had no idea what he had wanted to say.

They were seated in their compartment aboard the train, tickets punched and settling in for the ride, when Holmes, instead of burying himself again in the newspaper or staring out the window at the passing houses, said, "You were going to say something, earlier. What was it?"

"It was nothing."

"I think not. I had the distinct impression that you had something on your mind."

"I don't wish to talk about it," said Watson, and reached for the paper.

Holmes placed it out of his reach. "Whereas I do. It would help while away the journey."

"This is hardly the time or the place for it," said Watson, with a glance toward the door of their compartment. A small window of etched glass looked out into the train's passageway, where the conductor had paused to speak to a passenger in the compartment opposite.

"Really, Watson. I thought it would be obvious, even to you, that if we can't hear their conversation, they can't hear ours." He sat back in his seat, making himself comfortable and regarding Watson with an air of proprietorial smugness. "Carry on."

A score of thoughts flashed through Watson's mind, and he clenched his teeth in an attempt to avoid giving voice to any of them. "What do you want me to say?" he asked, warily.

"Anything you like. You could begin by telling me how you're not usually like that -- that you don't know what came over you. That was what you were going to tell me, was it not?"

"Holmes," Watson said, with a glance toward the door, but Holmes ignored him and simply waited for his answer.

"I don't know," said Watson at last. "I don't -- that is, I've never --"

"Never? On the contrary, Doctor. A man who had _never_ would hardly admit to a cock-stand as you did. Did you take yourself in hand after I left?"

_Yes._ It had been an hour of excruciating, bewildering pleasure, preparing Holmes's pipe for him, pouring another brandy at Holmes's direction and drinking it under his watchful eye, fetching his common-place book for him and sitting quietly, expectantly, on the opposite side of the fire-place as Holmes paged through it before looking up and saying, "I'm going out. Tell Mrs Hudson I won't be here for supper." Holmes had put on his hat and coat and left, and Watson had barely discharged his duty before stumbling blindly up to his bedroom, shutting the door, and fumbling at his trouser-buttons to take his prick out and bring himself off.

"I thought as much," said Holmes, and Watson knew his face had given him away -- would always give him away. "Did you do it right there in the sitting room, or did you at least go upstairs? No, upstairs, I would imagine," he continued, without waiting for a reply. "For all that you seem to relish our bohemian way of life, you have an underlying sense of propriety that is as ridiculous as it is endearing. Masturbating in the sitting-room would be quite beyond you."

It was just as well that Holmes didn't seem to require Watson to speak, after all. It was all he could do to listen to Holmes's words, while his discomfiture threatened to overwhelm him. The worst of it was that Holmes was clearly enjoying it -- enjoying the fact that Watson's head was pounding and his breath catching in his throat while his stomach turned somersaults inside him. And Holmes was smiling, the faintest upturn at the corners of his mouth while he spoke, not knowing -- or no, never not knowing: not _caring_ \-- that Watson was ready to crawl under his seat with embarrassment.

"Although I suppose you would if I told you to," Holmes continued, looking more thoughtful. "You would, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," said Watson. The word came more easily than he had thought it would, as if it had been trapped inside him just waiting to be released. "Yes," he said again, then turned quickly to look out the window, because he couldn't bear to see the triumph on Holmes's face. He tried to focus on the grey-on-grey blur outside, to calm himself by counting telegraph poles as they sped past -- a futile effort.

"You would do it right now if I told you to," said Holmes, and oh, there was a faint tone of wonder in his voice that threatened to undo Watson entirely. "If I told you to take out your prick and play with it right here in this carriage..."

"Yes," said Watson. "Anything, yes." He turned back to meet Holmes's piercing gaze and held it. His hand -- he realised that for the first time that he had been clenching it -- unclenched and almost without volition crept to his top fly-button.

Holmes shook his head. "Very flattering, but," he glanced at the door, "not something I would wish to explain to Lestrade when he meets us at the station."

He had not even been thinking of that; he had not been thinking of anything at all, except for the pure, aching necessity of doing what Holmes commanded. Watson was shocked to realise that he could still see the conductor's back through the door of their compartment, that he could have turned around at any moment. He let out a shaky laugh. "You're quite right," he said. "Perhaps -- perhaps we could continue this conversation later?"

"An excellent idea," said Holmes. "In the meantime, perhaps you could tell me what you make of this?" He passed over the newspaper, folded open to a few short paragraphs about a burglary. "It has some interesting features, I think you'll agree." Watson took the paper and began to read the article, feeling his heartrate slowly return to something like normal. "The sooner it's solved," Holmes added, "the sooner we will be back in Baker Street."


End file.
